


it's always been (you)

by lavenderlotion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disordered Eating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/pseuds/lavenderlotion
Summary: “You look like you need a hug, sweetheart,” Peter says against his ear and Stiles... falls back into him.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 151
Kudos: 750





	it's always been (you)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the word _”hug”_

Stiles is having the bad day to end all bad days. It’s the worst bad day of all bad days and he’s just. Done with it. So,  _ so _ done with it. 

The loft is as good a place as any to wallow in his misery, so when he finds himself pulling into the cracked-pavement parking lot with no memory of the drive over, he shuts the Jeep off. The minute the ignition dies, Stiles lets himself slump against the warmed-leather of Roscoe, thumping his head back against the headrest in a way that sends pinpricks of pain shooting across his entire body. 

_ Jesus.  _

Why does everything always  _ hurt? _

Stiles gets lost in the endless darkness of the preserve, stretching out behind the old, weather-worn building in front of him. He wonders if he should go home. He wonders if he can. 

He doesn’t know if Derek is going to be home. He hopes he isn’t, but Stiles can barely see past the spots blinking in his field of vision, and he needs something to eat. No matter how tired Stiles is, he knows at once that he can’t drive home like this. Sure, he does a lot of reckless shit on a pretty regular basis, but he’s not going to get on the road when he can barely see straight. 

His dad can barely look at him as it is. He doesn’t need to add anything to that.

Stiles digs his hands into his thighs and works on breathing deeply. He knows that he needs to get out and tackle the trek up to Derek’s loft—the elevator has been broken for so long Stiles stopped keeping track—although he... doesn’t want to. He just wants to go home and go to bed and sleep for  _ weeks _ because he’s constantly so, so tired. So tired, so cold, and so sore, all the time. 

It just all feels like too much and has ever since Peter helped rid the Nogitsune from his mind. For  _ weeks, _ Stiles has been stumbling through a daze, always only fractionally aware of what’s going on around him but never  _ all there. _ It’s frustrating at best and infuriating at worst and despite everything he does to try to stay awake and stay  _ present, _ Stiles has felt like he’s been slugging through a dream since he woke up. 

Different, from when the Nogitsune had him, but just as bad. 

He just wants a break. His dad is doing the best that he can while trying to keep that station afloat and the pack is... not something Stiles wants to think about, especially now, so with a heavy sigh and a heavier slump to his shoulders, he pushes his door open. 

The chill slides into his bones immediately. It’s not cold, but it’s cool enough that Stiles, always fighting a shiver, feels the soft breeze like a shock of ice against his skin. He reaches to his passenger seat and grabs a stolen jacket that belongs to his dad, ignoring the way his head throbs as he gets out of the car and slips it on. 

It helps, and the smell of his dad helps more. He locks the jeep and pats his back pocket to make sure he has his phone before he starts shuffling towards the loft. It’s a long climb up four flights, but Stiles takes several breaks so he can catch his breath and manages not to pass out, thank God. 

He rests against the loft’s large metal door for several minutes. It’s cool, but Stiles is warm enough from his trek up the stairs that it’s a welcome distraction from his racing pulse and burning lungs. A stitch has started throbbing in his side that he knows won’t go away any time soon, though he still presses a hand against the sharp pain in hopes that it’ll help ease it a little. 

As Stiles struggles to pull open the heavy door, he wonders why he’s here. There’s always been something that’s tugged him towards the supernatural. He can realize that now, two short years after leading Scott into the woods to look for a dead body. When he thinks about the things he’s been through and all the things he knows but doesn’t want to know, he can see that there’s always been something drawing him in. 

He doesn’t know what it is. 

The loft is, blessedly, empty. Stiles isn’t sure what he would have done had Derek been home, or even worse, had the pack been there. He isn’t avoiding them—you can’t avoid a group of people that refuse to spend time with you—but he still wouldn't want to see them, not when he can barely stand up straight. He wouldn’t want to see Derek, either, not with everything that’s happened between them. 

Stiles has hurt everyone he loves. He keeps hurting them, he thinks. Scott can’t look at him and his dad doesn’t spend any time at home and—

He looks in the mirror and it’s a stranger staring back. 

God.  _ God, _ he’s a fucking mess. Stumbling across the loft’s threshold, Stiles shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and shuffles into the kitchen. He doesn’t even have the energy to raise his feet, not with how tired he is.

Derek’s kitchen is... well, it’s bare as it’s always been. Stiles manages to find a package of energy bars and briefly ensures they’re still good. He struggles to open the box as he walks to the sink and flips on the tap, turning the faucet to cool. He lets the cardboard get soggy so he can tear his fingers into the softened paper. Once the box is open and Stiles has a bar in hand, he sluggishly reaches above him for a cup, housed in a cupboard missing a door. The glass is covered in dust but Stiles rinses it off before he lets it fill, and he wonders how long it’s been since Derek’s been here. 

He wouldn’t know, after all.

Not talking to anyone means he doesn’t know what anyone is doing. It’s... lonely, but Stiles understands. He still sees grief in his own eyes. They’ve all lost Allison. If Stiles could get away from himself he would, too. Maybe the pack is right? Maybe he’s a danger but he doesn’t know it. Maybe he isn’t okay, even if it sometimes feels like he is. 

Would he even know? He didn’t know before, not at first. What makes him think that he would know now? 

Sometimes he wonders if he’s alone. 

Stiles chews slowly and swallows around a heavy lump, having to take a long sip of water in order to force the food down. He doesn’t remember when eating became so taxing. Perhaps when his taste buds changed. Stiles can’t drink coffee black and he loves green apples and it’s wrong, so wrong, just as wrong as the way all of his pants stop at his ankle. The Nogitsune took more from him than he can put into words and left him a hollowed-out husk that feels nothing like himself and he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

He doesn’t know if he  _ deserves _ to do anything about it. 

Maybe this is his retribution for taking so many lives with hands he couldn’t control.

A floorboard creaks and Stiles doesn’t bother turning around. 

“Hello.” Peter Hale’s voice is one Stiles will always recognize. For a while, it haunted his nightmares. Then it slipped into his dreams. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Stiles shrugs, but he doesn’t have it in himself to answer. He unwraps another energy bar even though his stomach feels tight and achy. He refills his glass of water. This one goes down easier. He’s well aware of Peter watching him. The older man’s eyes have always felt heavy. Even without turning around, Stiles knows that Peter’s looking at him.

The Nogitsune left behind so much. More than Stiles ever wanted. Part of what the Nogitsune left behind is an awareness that isn’t human, an awareness that itches at Stiles’ unmarred skin and makes it feel too tight around his stretched bones. An awareness that lets Stiles know Peter is watching him and accessing him and, when Peter decides it, dismissing him as a threat. 

Peter did that once before, Stiles thinks, before he shoved his claw into the back of his neck and saved his life. Saved _everyone’s_ life. Peter is the reason Stiles’ skin doesn’t fit but he’s the reason everyone is alive—everyone but Allison, _why_ _was it Allison—_ and Stiles has never thanked him. 

He doesn’t have the words. 

How do you think someone for saving you when you’d... stopped wanting to be saved. 

Then Peter clicks his tongue and walks towards him. He gets so close that the warm wash of his breath fans the back of Stiles’ neck and he whimpers. He can’t even stop it. His glass falls from his hand but Peter catches it and places it on the counter. He also takes the energy bar from Stiles’ other hand and his fingers, smooth and uncalloused as well, brush Stiles’ knuckles and another whimper slips out. 

God. What is wrong with him? 

“You look like you need a hug, sweetheart,” Peter says against his ear and Stiles... falls back into him. 

Peter is clearly not expecting it, because he goes stock-still and as tight as a board. In for a penny in for a pound and all, so Stiles tilts his head back and rests it on Peter’s firm, broad shoulder. He waits for the man to push him away. To laugh it off. But Peter doesn’t move. No, he stands so still Stiles can’t tell if he’s even breathing until, after seconds have stretched into minutes, then hours, then years, Peter hugs him.

Something in Stiles’ chest cracks open when Peter’s arms slowly—but surely, without any hesitation—wrap around his middle. He’s never noticed it before, but Peter has  _ big _ hands, big enough that when he splays his fingers out to span Stiles’ belly he feels  _ small. _ Small and delicate and like something worth holding. 

More than that, more than anything, Peter is  _ warm. _ Supernaturally warm. So warm that his body heat seeps into Stiles’ body and chases away the chill in his bones. God, it feels so good to be warm again. 

Stiles moans, long and low and loud, as his entire body goes loose and Peter—

Peter holds him up.

For the very first time since Stiles woke up but wasn’t really awake, for the first time since he found out a door is not a door when it is ajar, for the first time since the Nogitsune crafted him a new skin and slipped him into a body that was not his own, for the first time since the arrow pierced Allison’s chest and he felt the slick slide  _ power _ down his throat—

For the first time in what feels like a  _ lifetime...  _ Stiles feels found. 

He feels found in Peter’s arms, with Peter’s warmth sinking into his bones and chasing away the chill he thought would never leave. He feels found with Peter’s pulse against his throat and his stubble scratching against his skin and, all at once, Stiles realizes: it’s Peter. 

Peter, who’s already saved him once. Who wanted to bite him. Who clawed his way back from the dead in a move that should have been  _ impossible, _ just like Stiles survived the impossible. 

With Peter’s arms around him and something flaring to light within his chest, so bright and so warm that tears track quietly down the sides of his face—

It’s Peter. 

It’s _ always _ been Peter. 

**Author's Note:**

> for anyone who's read [(baby) maybe that matters more](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383559/chapters/61551652), I do plan on writing more! another chapter will be on the way :) 
> 
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> kudos aren’t the same as getting a comment, not even close. so a comment, as short and sweet or as sprawling and sporadic as you can manage, would be _greatly_ appreciated! don't know what to comment? how about _”this was great!”_ or _“awesome work!”_


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